The Way to Heaven

From the German.

One day the Sultan, grand and grim,
Ordered the Mufti brought to him.
“Now let thy wisdom solve for me
The question I shall put to thee.

“The different tribes beneath my sway
Four several sects of priests obey;
Now tell me which of all the four
Is on the path to Heaven’s door.”

The Sultan spake, and then was dumb.
The Mufti looked about the room,
And straight made answer to his lord.
Fearing the bowstring at each word:

“Thou, godlike in thy lofty birth,
Who art our Allah upon earth,
Illume me with thy favoring ray,
And I will answer as I may.

“Here, where thou thronest in thy hall,
I see there are four doors in all;
And through all four thy slaves may gaze
Upon the brightness of thy face.

“That I came hither safely through
Was to thy gracious message due,
And, blinded by thy splendor’s flame,
I cannot tell the way I came.”

After Heine: Countess Jutta

From the German of Heinrich Heine.

The Countess Jutta passed over the Rhine
In a light canoe by the moon’s pale shine.
The handmaid rows and the Countess speaks:
“Seest thou not there where the water breaks
Seven corpses swim
In the moonlight dim?
So sorrowful swim the dead!

“They were seven knights full of fire and youth,
They sank on my heart and swore me truth.
I trusted them; but for Truth’s sweet sake,
Lest they should be tempted their oaths to break,
I had them bound,
And tenderly drowned!
So sorrowful swim the dead!”

The merry Countess laughed outright!
It rang so wild in the startled night!
Up to the waist the dead men rise
And stretch lean fingers to the skies.
They nod and stare
With a glassy glare!
So sorrowful swim the dead!

A Blessing.

AFTER HEINE.

When I look on thee and feel how dear,
How pure, and how fair thou art,
Into my eyes there steals a tear,
And a shadow mingled of love and fear
Creeps slowly over my heart.

And my very hands feel as if they would lay
Themselves on thy fair young head,
And pray the good God to keep thee alway
As good and lovely, as pure and gay,
When I and my wild love are dead.

To the Young.

AFTER HEINE.

Letyour feet not falter, your course not alter
By golden apples, till victory’s won!
The sword’s sharp clangor, the dart’s shrill anger,
Swerve not the hero thundering on.

A bold beginning is half the winning,
An Alexander makes worlds his fee.
No long debating! The Queens are waiting
In his pavilion on bended knee.

Thus swift pursuing his wars and wooing,
He mounts old Darius’ bed and throne.
O glorious ruin! O blithe undoing!
O drunk death-triumph in Babylon!

The Golden Calf.

AFTER HEINE.

Double flutes and horns resound
As they dance the idol round;
Jacob’s daughters, madly reeling,
Whirl about the golden calf.
Hear them laugh!
Kettledrums and laughter pealing.

Dresses tucked above their knees,
Maids of noblest families,
In the swift dance blindly wheeling,
Circle in their wild career
Round the steer,
Kettledrums and laughter pealing.

Aaron’s self, the guardian gray
Of the faith, at last gives way,
Madness all his senses stealing;
Prances in his high priest’s coat
Like a goat,
Kettledrums and laughter pealing.

The Azra.

AFTER HEINE.

Daily walked the fair and lovely
Sultan’s daughter in the twilight,
In the twilight by the fountain,
Where the sparkling waters plash.

Daily stood the young slave silent
In the twilight by the fountain,
Where the plashing waters sparkle,
Pale and paler every day.

Once by twilight came the princess
Up to him with rapid questions:
“I would know thy name, thy nation,
Whence thou comest, who thou art.”

And the young slave said, “My name is
Mahomet, I come from Yemmen.
I am of the sons of Azra,
Men who perish if they love.”

Good and Bad Luck.

AFTER HEINE.

Good luck is the gayest of all gay girls,
Long in one place she will not stay,
Back from your brow she strokes the curls,
Kisses you quick and flies away.

But Madame Bad Luck soberly comes
And stays, no fancy has she for flitting,
Snatches of true love-songs she hums,
And sits by your bed, and brings her knitting.

L’Amour du Mensonge.

After Charles Baudelaire.

When I behold thee, O my indolent love,
To the sound of ringing brazen melodies,
Through garish halls harmoniously move,
Scattering a scornful light from languid eyes;

When I see, smitten by the blazing lights,
Thy pale front, beauteous in its bloodless glow
As the faint fires that deck the Northern nights,
And eyes that draw me wheresoever I go;

I say, She is fair, too coldly strange for speech;
A crown of memories, her calm brow above,
Shines; and her heart is like a bruised red peach,
Ripe as her body for intelligent love.

Art thou late fruit of spicy savor and scent?
A funeral vase awaiting tearful showers?
An Eastern odor, waste and oasis blent?
A silken cushion or a bank of flowers?

I know there are eyes of melancholy sheen
To which no passionate secrets e’er were given;
Shrines where no god or saint has ever been,
As deep and empty as the vault of Heaven.

But what care I if this be all pretense?
’T will serve a heart that seeks for truth no more,
All one thy folly or indifference,
Hail, lovely mask, thy beauty I adore!

Amor Mysticus.

From the Spanish of Sor Marcela de Carpio.

Let them say to my Lover
That here I lie!
The thing of His pleasure,
His slave am I.

Say that I seek Him
Only for love,
And welcome are tortures
My passion to prove.

Love giving gifts
Is suspicious and cold;
I have all, my Beloved,
When Thee I hold.

Hope and devotion
The good may gain;
I am but worthy
Of passion and pain.

So noble a Lord
None serves in vain,
For the pay of my love
Is my love’s sweet pain.

I love Thee, to love Thee,
No more I desire;
By faith is nourished
My love’s strong fire.

I kiss Thy hands
When I feel their blows;
In the place of caresses
Thou givest me woes.

But in Thy chastising
Is joy and peace.
O Master and Love,
Let Thy blows not cease.

Thy beauty, Beloved,
With scorn is rife,
But I know that Thou lovest me
Better than life.

And because Thou lovest me,
Lover of mine,
Death can but make me
Utterly Thine.

I die with longing
Thy face to see;
Oh! sweet is the anguish
Of death to me!